


Up the Embankment

by speakingthroughbodies



Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: 07.09, F/M, Gen, Jilliam - Freeform, post-ep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 14:08:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speakingthroughbodies/pseuds/speakingthroughbodies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The cut behind his left ear is going to need stitches. 7x09, Midnight Train to Kingstown</p>
            </blockquote>





	Up the Embankment

**Author's Note:**

> The Murdoch Mysteries & its characters are the property of Maureen Jennings, Shaftesbury Films, and ITV Studios. In short: I own nothing. Feedback is much appreciated.

The cut behind his left ear is going to need stitches. She thinks of the scattered needles and spool of catgut rattling at the bottom of the valise the travelling physician left on the train. At the time Bryers –she thought his name was Bryers –had been too preoccupied with the impaled hatpin to bother with the usual lecture when the Constables' shouts jolted her to her feet. He hadn't said a word about her skirts as she gathered them in her hands, already preparing to run down a darkened embankment because there was no question, no possible way that she would stay here when William was "Down there!" and "In the branches!"

She'd thank him later. Return the bag with a note, something short to avoid the sharp, accusatory questions that she could still feel humming beneath her skin. Why wait until you heard the young mother scream? Why, sir, did the gunshots not merit investigation? How is it that your Hippocratic Oath held you back from helping  _me_? When did 'do no harm' become 'do nothing'?

And, at present, the one she found most grating of them all: who, for the love of God, taught you how to pack your instruments?

Julia forced out a long breath, pushed Bryers from her mind. It didn't matter. William was limping a few paces in front of her, heading towards the train but craning his neck at the river, moving it at just the right angle to pull the edges of his wound far enough apart to send fresh blood trickling towards his undershirt. So stubborn. The rag she'd been using on him just a moment ago had already begun to crust over, but she still scrubbed harder at her fingers, hating the feeling of his blood around her cuticles.

Up ahead William stopped short of the ridge, distracted by the tops of the Constables' hats as they flashed in and out of view farther downriver. She quickened her pace, pulling at her hands again, feeling more and more like she'd fallen out of  _Macbeth_  with each step. Out, out. Out of their lives, out of her dreams. No more screaming against coffin lids, no noose tightening, tightening, no more of his blood, warm and sticky, masking how cool his skin was in the morning air.

"William." She cupped his elbow in her palm and was startled for a moment when she didn't leave a rusty stain behind. The sun flashed against the water, daring her to look, but she turned her back under the guise of directing them up the hill. Their eyes met and she saw another flash of wild terror. Five years ago she wouldn't have recognized it. Her stomach twisted and her mouth fell open of its own volition. It would be so easy to tell him, to give voice to the fears, to say that sometimes she felt as if they  _were_  cursed, that there was no 'out' for them, always trapped in their own minds, in societies confines, and now in a madman's plots.

Instead she aligned herself with his good shoulder, touched his back with her free hand, and made him take the first step up the embankment with her. "Lean on me if you need to," she murmured.

She had taken oaths, too.


End file.
